Blow Down

by JL Merrow

“Really? That frog in your throat’s so big it should have its own TV show.”

  God, I was so tempted to make a crack about romances with pigs.

  Nah. Phil might not have been a copper for a few years now, but he’s still a bit sensitive about stuff like that. I glanced over at him and saw he had this half-amused, half-resigned look on his face, as if he’d somehow developed his own psychic talent and had just read my mind.

  Hey, I’d had two attempts on my life this week. I reckoned I was entitled to a bit of paranoia.

  The cats gave us their version of a hero’s welcome when we got back to mine—Arthur gave me a quick sniff and then stalked off to check what he’d left in his food bowl, while Merlin sat down next to Phil on the sofa and started licking his bum.

  Merlin’s own bum, I hasten to add. Not Phil’s. Nobody gets to lick that except me.

  I grinned. “Think the honeymoon period’s over with you and him.”

  Then I realised that was another thing we were gonna have to talk about. The honeymoon.

  Phil put his good arm around me and pulled me in for a kiss. “Don’t sweat it. Plenty of time to decide about that.”

  See? Telepathy.

  Just as we were about to ring for a takeaway prior to getting a very early night, my phone rang.

  “Have you heard the news?” Cherry breathed down the line.

  “Uh, the news in general, or some particular news?” I asked cautiously. I didn’t reckon Arlo’s arrest would’ve hit the headlines yet, and if she hadn’t heard about it, I really wasn’t feeling up to filling her in right now.

  “The news about Toby. He’s resigned.”

  Oh. That. “Yeah? They say why?”

  “Oh, he’s becoming a Roman Catholic or some nonsense. But don’t you see? With him resigning and the dean retiring due to ill health—”

  “Greg’s going to have a lot more work to do?” I said to wind her up.

  “Don’t be obtuse. It means a vacancy—two vacancies—and he’s the man who knows the diocese best. This could be his big chance.”

  “Yeah? Well, fingers crossed.” Then I grinned as a thought struck. “Know what else it means?”

  “What?”

  “You’re short a bishop to marry you come February.”

  There was a silence. Then, “Oh, bugger.”

  I cracked up. “Language, Sis.”

  Next day being Sunday, me and Phil were able to have a good long lie-in without any guilt whatsoever, followed by a cooked breakfast I reckoned would keep us going until dinnertime. When the doorbell rang soon after we’d finished eating, I made sure I had a good look at who it was before I opened the door. I didn’t want any more pics of yours truly appearing in the local press.

  It was Dave. And he’d brought company. He squinted at me. “Oi, you still concussed?”

  “Depends,” I said cautiously.

  “Nah, I’m not taking any chances. Your bloke here?”

  Phil answered that one by coming out into the hall. “All right, Dave?”

  “Peachy. Cop a hold of that.” He handed over a kiddie car seat containing a snoozing Southgate junior. “Just bung him down somewhere—gently. He ought to sleep for a while yet.”

  Phil took Dave’s son and heir with his good arm, as the proud father wiped his size thirteens on the mat. “I could murder a cuppa,” he said pointedly, in my direction.

  I gave him a look. “Does your Jen know it’s bring-your-kids-to-work day?” My voice was finally getting back to normal, thank God. Well, ish.

  “Work? This is just a social visit, this is. Anyhow, Jen’s knackered, poor cow. Says it’s a bloody sight harder doing night feeds in your forties. We’re letting her sleep. You put that kettle on yet?”

  “What did your last slave die of?” I muttered, already on my way to the kitchen.

  “Well, it wasn’t from being bashed on the head by a murderer, you daft git.”

  “Oi, if your lot did their job properly, he wouldn’t have been running around bashing heads in the first place, would he?”

  Dave rubbed his neck. “Yeah, well. Words have been had with a certain DI Sharp, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I’m touched.”

  “Not by me you bloody won’t be. Nah, don’t bother with the fancy stuff. Just gimme a mug of PG Tips.”

  I put Cherry’s present of a tin of Fine Old English Breakfast (stainless steel infuser included) back in the cupboard and got out the tea bags. There’s a lot to be said for undemanding mates.

  Me and Dave got back into the living room with our three mugs of tea to find Phil with the kiddie seat on the coffee table near him, rocking it gently and staring at the sleeping sprog with a silly smile on his face.

  He stopped as soon as he saw us looking, and coughed. “Got a name yet, has he?”

  Dave beamed. “Lucas. Luke for short. And you can shut it with the Star Wars jokes, all right?”

  “Never crossed my mind,” I lied through my teeth. And started wondering where I could get hold of a stuffed Yoda for the nipper. And a Wookie. Maybe an Ewok or two.

  Dave parked his arse on an armchair with an oof—from both him and the chair, I reckoned—and took a gulp of tea. “Christ, I needed that. One thing Sharp and his crew did right, mind. They found that necklace you were supposed to be tracking down. Missed a trick there, didn’t you?”

  “Why? Where was it?”

  “Arlo Fenchurch’s house. Well, most of it was. Shame about that big diamond in the middle. Gone walkies, hadn’t it?”

  Huh. “I could’ve sworn there were no strong trails in that place.” I felt a bit off-balance. Uneasy. I mean, not that I ever asked for this gift, and God knew it’d caused me enough grief over the years, but I wasn’t sure I was happy to think I might be losing it.

  Dave chuckled. “Psychic satnav on the blink, is it? Sure you updated your maps recently?”

  Then again, I thought with a rush of relief, that trail at Toby’s had been loud and clear and bright as anything. Nah, I still had it.

  Phil frowned. “Maybe there was something messing with the vibes? Surprised he’d hide it there, though. Why not in the workshop with all the other jewellery?” The frown cleared, and he nodded to himself. “No, it makes sense. Go on.”

  Dave and me exchanged glances. “Come on, Morrison. Share with the class.”

  Phil gave us an innocent look, as if he was surprised we hadn’t worked it out ourselves.

  Totally fake. I know my bloke.

  “Fenchurch knew we’d be paying him a visit at the workshop,” Phil said. “And maybe he believes in your talent for finding stuff, and maybe he doesn’t—although if you ask me, a man who makes that many digs about it is trying too hard to convince himself it’s all bollocks—but anyhow, he shifts what’s left of the necklace to his house, thinking better safe than sorry. Chances are, he doesn’t think a lot of it at the time. It’s strong emotions you sense, right? And he reckoned he was pretty safe. ’Specially as he wasn’t expecting a home call soon after.” He flashed Dave a look. “Sharp wasn’t after Arlo, was he?”

  “Thought it was young Violet, didn’t he? Apparently Fenchurch managed to make the hints subtle enough he couldn’t be accused of actually saying she did it. You know the sort of thing. Character assassination, making sure Sharp knew how much she hated Amelia. What with them having been involved, he’d have had plenty of ammunition. No need at that stage for him to actually tell an outright lie about what he’d seen or heard.” Dave shook his head.

  “So the trail wasn’t that strong.” I reckoned we’d wandered off the main track here. “Yeah, that could be it. Why didn’t he melt it down, though? That would’ve got rid of the problem for good.”

  Dave leaned forward. “Again, we’re guessing here, ’cos since he’s got himself all lawyered up, Fenchurch’s lips have been sealed tighter than a tick’s arse, but maybe he’d planned to put in a new stone and swap it back at some point. Once he’d got the money he needed out of old Majors. He wouldn
’t wanna get rumbled some point down the line and mess up a beautiful friendship. All the necklace was for was to keep the business up and running and looking good until the brother-in-law had signed on the dotted line.”

  Phil huffed a laugh. “So it was like a payday loan?”

  “The interest rate’s always a killer, ain’t it?” Dave chuckled. Jedi junior stirred and snuffled, and Dave rocked the car seat a few times. “Oi, settle down now, settle down. What he hadn’t planned for was his sister finding herself a bit short and trying to sell the thing.”

  I frowned. “Was that before or after she got me in to look for it?”

  “Must’ve been after,” Phil said with a fair amount more certainty than I reckoned he had any right to. “Arlo walks off with it and starts making the fake, she notices it’s gone and calls you, then sometime after that he plants the fake back. She reckons Vi’s had enough of playing silly buggers, congratulates herself on getting out of paying you a finder’s fee, and takes a trip down to her friendly neighbourhood diamond merchant.”

  Okay, so it all sounded pretty plausible.

  “Course,” Dave went on with a subtle hint of Who’s telling this story? “The minute said diamond geezer has a good look at it—and yeah, we’ve tracked him down and got a statement—he knows it’s a fake. He tells her, she goes ballistic, and—guessing again, although it’s backed up by a few things Fenchurch let slip in hospital—confronts big brother about it at the fayre.”

  “That was the argument the cats lady heard?”

  “That’s what my money’s on. Amelia demands the real thing back—and the kicker: she threatens to tell Alex Majors that Fenchurch has been carrying on an adulterous affair with our not-so-shrinking Violet if he doesn’t deliver. Trouble is, Fenchurch can’t deliver, seeing as how he’s sold the main bling already and spent the cash on shoring up his business. Fenchurch sees his lucrative arrangement with Alex Majors about to come to an abrupt end and, because he’s an entitled bastard with a nasty temper and an even nastier line in misogyny—”

  “—brings his sister to an abrupt end.” Phil’s smile was grim. “After which he’s got free rein to carry on ingratiating himself with Majors, being a comfort in his hour of grief, all that bollocks.”

  “And fingering Vi,” I added.

  They stared at me. I might have flushed.

  “Not like that. I mean, making everyone think she did it.” Including her dad, poor bastard.

  “Yeah. Gives Fenchurch a hold over Majors and, as an added bonus, lets him get back at the ex for dumping him.”

  “Well, only if he actually told the police she did it. And if he did that, he wouldn’t have a hold over her dad anymore, would he?”

  Phil snorted. “His sort? Probably gets his jollies just from knowing he can bring someone’s world crashing down.”

  Yeah, I’d been worried about that. “Is Vi going to get charged with anything for shooting the bastard?”

  Dave shook his head. “What, the bloke what killed her stepmum, seduced her, and tried to frame her for murder? Anyhow, it seems she didn’t know it was loaded, and she only meant to threaten him with it. Never meant to shoot anyone, honest, guv.”

  I stared at him, visions of Vi the Avenging Fury dancing in my head. “And you believe that?” Especially the bit about her using the word guv.

  He chuckled. “Don’t matter what I believe. Sharp’s satisfied, so who am I to argue? You want the girl to go down for shooting that turd?”

  Well, when he put it like that . . .

  There was another snuffle, then a tiny cry, which rapidly turned into a full-on wail from the direction of the padawan in Pampers. Dave unstrapped him from the car seat and picked the little mite up in his big hands, smiling fondly. “Oi, now, we’ll have none of this, my lad. Anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence against you.”

  I shot Phil a worried glance. “Think he’s hungry?” I asked Dave.

  “Nah, he’s just making sure we haven’t forgotten he’s here, aren’t you, champ?” Dave patted the tiny back a few times, and the crying subsided. “Want to hold him?” he asked me out of the blue.

  “Uh . . . Thought you were worried about concussion?”

  “Just stay sitting down and you’ll be fine. Here you go.” He bent down to hand me Southgate junior and laughed. “Christ, don’t look so bloody terrified. They’re harder to break than you think.”

  They were? I was having trouble believing it, desperately trying not to hold on either too tight or too loose. This kid weighed less than Merlin. He probably weighed less than Merlin’s dinner.

  “Put him up against your shoulder. He likes that.”

  Slowly, carefully, I lifted the kid up, holding his tiny head ’cos even I knew that much about babies. He snuffled warmly into my shoulder, smelling of nonbiological washing powder and the barest hint of wet nappy. He didn’t cry again. I could hardly believe I was holding an actual little person.

  I certainly couldn’t believe he’d got half his DNA from Dave.

  I glanced over at Phil, and the way he was looking at me made my chest go tight. The poker face had slipped, and he was blinking a lot faster than he normally did.

  Then Dave burst out laughing, the insensitive git. “Better watch out, Paretski—looks like your bloke’s got his heart set on a shotgun wedding.”

  With my hands full of our nation’s future, I couldn’t make the rude gesture I wanted to.

  Luckily, Phil did it for me.

  Gary and Darren popped in to see us midafternoon. We’d actually been supposed to be going for a pub lunch with them that day—Darren knew a place out Berko way that apparently did a great Sunday roast with all the trimmings—but given the events of the day before, we’d cried off, giving minimal details.

  So naturally, Gary wanted to hear the full story from the horse’s mouth, as they say.

  Speaking of which . . . “Any news about your hobby horse?” I asked, as we lounged around in my living room, Phil having given them the short ’n’ snappy version of events.

  He was better at that than I was. Came from writing case reports, I reckoned.

  Gary raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that? Yes, it all came out last night in the pub. In vino, as they say, veritaserum.”

  “Veritas,” Phil corrected.

  Gary gave him a look that strongly suggested Phil could take that and shove it up his (verit)arse. “Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, it turned out that a certain lady who shall remain nameless but is, however, not Mrs. Hobby had been harbouring a secret desire to emulate Catherine the Great.”

  “You what?”

  He sighed. “Russian monarch? Famed for, shall we say, a somewhat excessive fondness for our equine friends?”

  “You what?”

  This time I got the full eye roll. “Horse fucking, darling. Horse. Fucking.”

  Darren sniggered, then shook his head solemnly. “We get a lot of that.”

  I stared at him. “Horse fucking?”

  “Nah, Morris dancing groupies. Women what get all excited when they hear the jingle of a man’s bells. Me, I have to beat ’em off with a stick.”

  I swallowed. He was winding me up, right?

  Right?

  “And the dent?”

  Gary shrugged. “Hobby didn’t specify. One can only speculate that the equipment didn’t, alas, live up to its reputation.”

  I gave him the side-eye. “If you’re telling me he keeps a giant papier-mâché cock under that cloak . . . Seriously. I don’t wanna know.”

  Later—much later—me and Phil were pottering around the kitchen, conspicuously not talking about tiny babies and their mysterious ability to turn grown men into mush. Arthur was keeping a beady eye on us from his favourite perch on the top of the fridge while Merlin sniffed at his food bowl and then flashed me an outraged look at its continued emptiness.

  “Funny things, cats, aren’t they?” I mused. “I mean, they get more attached to places than t
o people, don’t they? I read somewhere that moving house—for people, that is—is supposed to be as stressful as getting divorced. So for cats, yeah, it’s gotta be even worse, poor little furry sods.” God, it felt good to be able to get whole sentences out without feeling like I’d been swallowing sandpaper.

  Phil gave me a look.

  “What?”

  He smirked and put his arms around me. “You don’t want to move, do you? Take up your sister’s offer of the house. You want to stay here.”

  Now I felt like a git. “No, that’s not what I meant. Seriously. Look, I’ve been thinking about it. You want to move, don’t you? I mean Cherry’s house is way bigger than mine, it’s in a nicer area—”

  “Further from the office.”

  “You could get a new office out there. Get a better class of client.”

  Phil laughed. “Because everyone who comes knocking on my door wants all their neighbours to know about it.”

  “Okay, so you keep the office in Hatfield Road. It’s not that far to drive in every morning. Cherry’s been doing it for years. And me, obviously, I can work anywhere.”

  “But it’s not what you want. Is it? You’d rather stay here.”

  Christ. I couldn’t lie to him. “I’ll get used to it. I know it’s what you’ve always wanted—somewhere better than where you grew up.” Aspirational, that was my Phil.

  “Tom. Yes, I want something better than I grew up with. I’ve never made any secret of that. But . . . it’s a state of mind as much as anything. It’s about believing you deserve a good life just as much as some bastard born with a whole bloody canteen of silver in his chinless gob. And yeah, maybe I didn’t always realise it, but I don’t need the big house with the fancy postcode.”

  He stopped, smiled at something, and stroked my hair. “I don’t need any of that stuff. Not as long as I’ve got you.”

  Funny, I’d thought my throat was better now. But here I was, getting all choked up again.

  Only in a much, much better way this time. “Me too.” My voice came out hoarse, so I coughed and said it again. “Me too.”

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